


Though Life Would Still Go on Believe Me

by bunnoculars



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-23
Updated: 2010-12-23
Packaged: 2019-03-12 23:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13558296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnoculars/pseuds/bunnoculars
Summary: John reacts to the news that Paul is going to Paris with Robert Fraser. Set in June 1966.





	Though Life Would Still Go on Believe Me

They were hanging around late one night at the Ad Lib when it happened. John was sitting next to Ringo and Maureen in the booth, Cyn tucked closely to his side, scotch and coke in front of him and half-smoked ciggie dangling from his fingers. A farcical situation, the turned on lot of them forced back into the early days, when going out with the girls (the wife even then, in John’s case) and drinking scotch and coke was height of living. Whoever had suggested it deserved to have his head kicked in—John was hazy on the details, was apt to blame Paul, who seemed as nostalgic as a fucking sixty-year-old sometimes. Paul, who was still lagging back in the turned on bit—been holding out on John, refusing to try acid.

But anyway, he had probably been laughing over something stupid he had said, or something George had said from his place across the table, where he was sitting with Pattie in a similar manner; he couldn’t remember now, didn’t care enough to, with the buzz of the alcohol slowly coursing through his system and Paul being Paul in the corner of his eye.

Of all the Beatles, only Paul was without a date (which hardly mattered, as he’d pick one up as soon as he liked), so he was squashed away into the corner across from Cynthia. It seemed to faze him little, anyway, to have Jane off in Bristol—he had started off the evening exuberant and gregarious as ever, chattering on about the latest records (and John suspected he would’ve been on about birds he’d shagged lately, as well, if it hadn’t been for the wives being there) before settling into a mellow sort of cheer as the drinks flowed, laughing at everything that was said and occasionally adding a little comment of his own. He had always been an indiscriminately effusive drunk, and tonight was no exception; he’d matched wits with George and John till he tired of it, joked around a bit with Ringo (who just loved the whole bloody world when he was pissed), and was now earnestly describing the beauty of _Pet Sounds_ to Cyn. This was a testament to both his inebriation and his obsession with the album—it was a conversation between two people who could scarcely tell Brian Wilson from Beethoven.

“The sound of it is just so great—if you listen to it, really listen, y’know, it’s just the greatest thing. The lyrics’re grand and all that, but ‘s the music that blows my mind every time I listen to it—the melody on ‘You Still Believe in Me’…”

John resisted the urge to snigger at the lost look on Cyn’s face. She hadn’t had as much to drink as the rest of them (that was to say, she might’ve been on her first drink still), so there was nothing to ease her through Paul’s rambling. She was trying to take it all in politely, but he could tell she hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about. Poor girl. He knew he should rescue her (he’d had to endure this all from Paul so many times himself that it was getting a bit wearing), but he couldn’t quite rouse the effort.

Instead, he was content to watch Paul as he continued on, taking in the merry twinkle in his eyes under heavy eyelids, the way his head tilted ever so slightly, propped up on the hand resting against his cheek…

It fell to George to do the rescuing, who, having realized John had ceased interest in their conversation after he hadn’t answered him in a few minutes, followed his gaze to the man next to him.

“You bangin’ on about _Pet Sounds_ again then, eh?” he asked, maybe a little loudly because he was a little drink or a little irritated. Paul took a second to realize he was being addressed before he glanced around at George.

“I’m not bangin’ on about it,” he contradicted, before struggling to define what precisely he was doing. “I’m just…talkin’ about it.”

“I don’t mind, really,” Cyn said in a small voice, but no one paid her any mind. That was what it was like with them, always. The wives were drowned out among the four of them; when they were all together, it was more like they were married to each other than anything else.

“Well, talk about something else,” George said, definitely irritated this time. “That’s all you’ve been on about for days.”

“I haven’t, have I?” Paul asked, voice strained high with faint protest. He was still looking at George in a sort of sidelong way, head inclining just a tad towards him.

George’s reply was firmer. “Yeah, you have, son.”

Paul turned directly to John. “Have I, John?”

John felt strangely touched that Paul had appealed to him. Tinged with annoyance, bitterness almost, because of what that signified, the growing strain he felt between him and Paul.

“’Fraid so, old boy,” he said, because he couldn’t very well deny it. He met Paul’s eyes steadily and they gazed at each other in silence for a long moment, unaffected by the music that pounded through the air and the conversation all around them, until Paul smiled almost wistfully and lowered his cheek back to his hand.

“Brian’s wonderful, though, isn’t he,” he sighed.

“You can send him some fan mail then,” John said, half-smirking at the sight of Paul so star struck; there was something in his tone that he didn’t particularly like. He put on a high-pitched voice, all rushed and fanlike, “Dear Brian, I think you’re really fab and gear and wonderful and I’m your biggest fan, love Paul.”

“Piss off,” Paul said placidly, taking a drag of his cigarette, as George let out a sharp bark of laughter at his words. There was a brief lull in the noise around them as a new song started up and the crowd quieted to hear the opening refrain.

“’Sides, we’ve got something better coming up, haven’t we?” George said. A welcome escape from the Beach Boys that John seized upon.

“I should think so,” he said, affecting a pompous voice, much to everyone’s amusement though Paul just smiled reluctantly. “We are the Beatles, you know.”

“Oh, of course,” George said, carrying on with the posh accent; he came up sounding slightly nasally. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Starkey?”

Ringo, who had hardly spoken a word, gamely agreed.

“Can’t get fabber than that—fabber than us, I mean.”

John cracked up at the trip in his words; it was vintage Ringo. He collected Ringoisms, kept a clutter of them in his head as some fell by the way side and others were tacked on—“Tomorrow Never Knows,” for one.

George chuckled as well and the girls tittered around them, but Paul merely hummed as his smile, reluctant in the first place, faded thoughtfully. Out of all of them, Paul was the only real fan of the album (although he’d made John listen to it until his ears bled); it didn’t do much for him, really, or for George—it didn’t have the edge he always looked for. As for George, it didn’t have any sitars or whatever the fuck else Indians played.

It was just right for Paul, though, fit him in a way it could never fit John. Beautiful in that too perfect way, mellifluous and sweet and innocent in a way that struck a note in your soul you couldn’t touch yourself.

John took a puff of his cigarette and felt Cynthia shift beside him to take a dainty sip of her drink. Idly he had a vision of them going home and fucking in the old marriage bed, a bland flash of the future he felt wholly disconnected from. As he smoked he continued to look at Paul (he’d hardly looked away, except maybe to glance at George and Ringo briefly), and Paul continued to look at him.

“We weren’t planning on recording anythin’ this Friday, were we?” Paul asked suddenly, and when no one answered, he straightened and added, “John?”

“God, don’t ask me that,” John said, thrown by the question and a little irritated that conversation too had wandered into such mundane territory. Nonetheless, he shook his head and there was a waver of humor in his voice as he went on, “Can’t even remember what we’re doing tomorrow, can I?”

“Well, it can’t be anything important, then,” Paul determined, rather baselessly, or so John thought. “Or else you’d remember it.”

“The world could be ending on Friday and I wouldn’t know it ‘til it came around,” Ringo interjected. That really got the lot of them laughing again, but John was feeling on edge now; maybe it was the scotch, maybe it was Paul’s line of questioning. He took another quick drag of his ciggie and considered him over his drink, eyes narrowing.

“What for?” he asked, exhaling a stream of smoke. Paul’s eyes followed it lazily as it curled up in the air and slowly faded away. He took a long draw from his own ciggie. John watched with interest as that mouth closed around it.

“I’m going away with Robert for a bit,” he said at length, languidly. At his words, John felt a sudden flash of something—but the others weren’t so quick to catch on—

“Robert…?” Ringo inquired, genuinely puzzled.

“Fraser,” Paul clarified, and the feeling was back inside John, white-hot and dangerous. “To Paris, to have a look at some art.”

Paris. Something painful clunked through him, barely recognizable through his anger, something that John scrabbled to ignore because he knew what was lurking just behind, the flood of feelings and memories and things half-said, desires and wishes and fancies. Paul in Paris, Paris in Paul. Paul, going to _Paris_ without him, with…with…

“Groovy Bob,” he sneered, his voice twisted up with all the things unsaid, unthought. Paul blinked at him, surprised by the sudden abrasiveness of his tone. He felt Cyn tense up against him, undoubtedly afraid that he was getting too drunk, too mean. John suddenly wished it were Paul pressed to his side instead, so that he could physically discern Paul’s reaction. See beyond everything if there was something there besides his nonchalance.

“Yeah, Groovy Bob,” Paul said plainly not seeing the problem. John stared at him, half incredulous half angry (gut slightly in freefall from the Feeling He Was Ignoring). Of course there was a problem, how could he not see that? Paul was going off on a trip, alone, for days, [without him] with someone who was obviously—

“Isn’t he…?” Ringo pressed vaguely, uneasily, his lovely attitude slipping. He looked from John to George to Paul.

“He’s fucking queer, man,” George said bluntly, lowly, and there was a glower in his voice, flickering in his eyes. He glanced briefly, inexplicably at John before turning his eyes to Paul. Paul, who was looking rather nettled at the direction this was going in—John could tell from the upward tilt of his chin, just so, and the brief furrow of his brows. John suspected that if he hadn’t been drunk, Paul might’ve been more wound up about it, but as it was he let his irritation flow.

“He’s also an art dealer, George,” he said crossly, firmly, as though he wanted and expected that to be the end of the conversation—though that came to the same fucking thing, didn’t it. George’s eyes bulged and Ringo cleared his throat uncomfortably, but John felt a more quiet fury take hold. Paul shouldn’t have been going away at all, they had songs to create and things to do even if they had no plans, least of all with Robert fucking Fraser.

“Paul, why would you—?” George said in an exasperated, ugly voice, as if Paul was deliberately ignoring an unpleasant truth they were both aware of. Which he was. “Y’know he could have a thing for you—probably does—”

“He doesn’t,” Paul retorted, “And he knows I don’t have a thing for him—”

“What if he doesn’t care?” George pressed. “And there’ll be stuff going ‘round about you, anyroad, goin’ off with a queer, ‘n all.”

Paul might’ve been blushing, but from the lighting John could hardly tell; he took a drag of his cigarette and blew smoke into George’s face. “So let it go ‘round, I don’t care. I know I’m not and ‘e knows I’m not, and you lot know I’m not—”

Ringo suddenly giggled, a nervous sound. “But what’ll you do if ‘e—y’know—tries to have a go at you?”

John let out a jagged laugh at the idea, felt jagged in chest and coming up his throat, too; George followed suit and huffed out a smile. John at least was far from being amused. He’d seen the way that fucker looked at Paul sometimes, when he thought no one would notice. Paul was too pretty for his own good, with a face like that—long, dark lashes and big doe eyes, those eyebrows that defied explanation, and his mouth, soft and full and girlish…

Paul frowned over at him as he dashed out his ciggie completely. John suddenly wanted to punch that expression off his face, to mar that perfect face, give him a black-eye or a fat lip or just something that would give Paul a little of the untouched pain building up inside him.

“Now this is just gettin’ daft,” he said angrily and rose. He was surprisingly steady on his feet, nudging George. “Let me out, I need t’use the loo.”

John stared after him as Pattie and George scooted out of the way and Paul walked off, disappearing from sight. There one second and gone the next. It bothered John, the idea that Paul could just pop in and out of his life like that, come and go as he pleased and John wouldn’t see him when he walked away and would see him when he came back to him. [That he could go to Paris without him. Could look at him and leave him behind and go with Bob Fraser and come back and say hello to John like it was just another day.]

[That he could live his own life, didn’t need John.]

“Doesn’t realize how pretty he is, I guess, our Paulie,” Ringo slurred, ready to let the topic drop, but not before another slow bout of chuckles at the thought. “I’ve never seen a bloke that looked so much like a bird.”

“He doesn’t either,” Mo protested, bravely rising up to Paul’s defense in his absence—it might’ve been the first time she’d spoken all evening.

“ _Does_ ,” Ringo insisted, and this time both he and George fell to laughing, although for the latter there was a certain hardness to the sound.

“Tony Sheridan—that fella we played with at the Top Ten—‘e thought he was a poof for months,” he said through the hilarity. “Remember, John?”

“On account of the eyebrows,” John confirmed, struggling hard to keep his voice neutral. The more they talked about it, the more it made him think about Paul alone with Groovy Bob. He knew Paul wasn’t queer, but the idea of them together, going off like that—to Paris, of all places [their city], on the art scene with the rest of the fags—why the fuck couldn’t Paul see what he was stepping into—?

John felt the hideous feeling opening up inside him, something dark and monstrous and enormous, grappling at his gut. He threw back his drink, wished to Christ he could just roll a joint here, then stood up abruptly.

“John…?” Cynthia began, not sure what he was doing, but he merely kneed Ringo, who was still laughing into his scotch and coke.

“Budge up, son—got to use the loo.”

A few seconds later he was off, pushing his way through the crowded club to the lavatory. Retracing Paul’s footsteps.

 

Paul was washing his hands when John walked in, carefully scrubbing in a way that just said Paul; John would’ve just thrust his hands in the sink, have a quick turn with the soap, and have done with it.

He saw John in the mirror as he looked up.

“Someone’s been sick all over the toilet on the end,” he said by way of greeting, crinkling up his nose. “The far end, I mean.”

“George is right, y’know,” John said, advancing on him to stand behind him. He wasn’t in the mood for discussing fucking toilets and messing about—there was something in the tone of his voice that reflected that, sharp and dark.

Paul looked at him, at his reflection, and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come off it,” he said. “He’s your friend, too.”

But Groovy Bob wasn’t John’s friend in the same we he was Paul’s friend, apparently. He was John’s friend in the context of the four of them, as in he was a Friend of the Beatles, a fellow traveler who he could talk to when their orbits collided. Not a friend he’d gallivant off to Paris with, not—

—[Not Paul.]

There was a tense silence as John hung on, perversely hopeful, but that was all he said. He seethed that Paul didn’t need to justify himself any further than that—at the eye roll he felt his anger flare savagely—the urge to hit Paul came back—

“I don’t like the way that queer looks at you,” he said harshly, abruptly, staring at Paul’s face through the mirror and hating him for not turning around, searching vainly for some kind of reaction. Waiting impatiently for him to catch on to everything that was wrong with going to Paris with Bob Fraser [without John], to catch on to how he was making John feel—

Fuck, how was he feeling? The thing inside him, clawing at his insides—mouth dry and hot—eyes fixed on Paul’s eyes, his face—

—[wanting to touch him, strike him]—

“I’m not some bird, John,” Paul scoffed, looking horribly as though he wanted to laugh. The expression was so jarring, so at odds with how he was feeling, that it tore through John, humiliating him and infuriating him. Paul moved over to dry his hands and John followed close behind. “’Sides, ‘ve already said he doesn’t even look at me like that, I don’t know why you’re all being so…”

—[wanting to shake him]—

“I’ve fuckin’ seen it,” he said, voice getting raw and rough with his rising anger. “I’ve seen him.”

“He can look all he wants, then,” Paul said calmly, as if he was tired of fighting him on that point, glancing over at John, eyes just as dispassionate and opaque as his voice, “it won’t come to anything.”

John’s heart strained and burned viciously.

“And if he gets you drunk and has a go?” he persisted.

Paul really did laugh this time, not the bitchy little giggles he was capable of but one great big guffaw bursting out of him as though he could no longer keep it in. “John, please, just stop—just leave it alone—”

—[wanting to grab him, shove him, hold him]—

“It won’t be fucking funny when he’s trying to get one over you, Paul,” he said dangerously, loudly, much too loudly. Paul’s laughter subsided as suddenly as it had come as he finished with the towel and glanced over at John, a strange expression stealing over his face and into his wide hazel eyes.

There was a silence that said everything and nothing and John waited unbearably for it to be over—

“I don’t need you to look after me, John,” Paul said finally, and the feeling that had been building up inside crashed down over John—

—[wanting to kiss him, make love to him]—

Paul breezed past him and when John heard the clatter of the bathroom door, he remained where he was, totally deserted, alone. Alone with his fury and jealousy and hurt and something else, something that left him feeling as though a giant hole had opened up inside him.

—[wanting to make love with him.]


End file.
